Made of Stone
by actingwithportals
Summary: What went through his head after his one and only friend was taken from him? (musical rendition)


Weightless, that's how she felt. Like a feather, freshly fallen from a bird's wing, swaying in the air until it meets its landing on the cold, hard ground. Esmeralda was a feather, dressed in white and finally reached the end of her flight, never to dance through the air again.

And yet it felt as if the weight of the world rested upon Quasimodo's shoulders. A heaviness he had never experienced before. It wasn't physical, wasn't something tangible he could push to the side or pull away. It was an invisible force that drove into him, pressing him closer to the ground than any deformity could. Sure, he left his tower standing tall, a figure of stone in the face of the broken soldier whom he couldn't show weakness before. He couldn't let him see the weight that threatened to tear him down at any moment. This was his doing, his responsibility, and he wasn't going to let the soldier get in the way.

He had to do this alone.

She was so light in his arms, lighter than she had felt when he held her before. Perhaps that was due to the soul that had left her body behind, taking the weight of everything that made Esmeralda who she was with her? She was empty now, nothing more than a hollow shell. A feather detached from its home.

The cathedral was still, like the whole world had decided to stop moving and instead hold its breath in anticipation. Or maybe the world had no more breath to give? It had seen too much in one night, fought for too long. The world deserved a rest. Esmeralda deserved a rest. He deserved a rest.

No one followed him. For once, Quasimodo's friends had nothing to say. Like stone, they remained still, lifeless, leaving him alone. He had wished for this barely an hour before, but now that it was given to him, Quasimodo wanted nothing more than to hear their voices again. But they didn't come.

He continued to walk through the halls of the cathedral alone.

If he had only been faster, just by a minute, things could have ended differently. Or if he hadn't gone after her in the first place, been content to let her flee on her own, this wouldn't have happened. If he had never left his bell tower that day, would any of this had taken place? Would things have been better?

Yes; it would have been better if he had never stepped foot out of these walls.

She would still be dancing in the square; her people would still have a home in this city. She might have even still fallen in love, and grown to live happily with a family, a life. And he would have remained up here, where he belonged, in a place where he couldn't do any harm, or bring misfortune. He may not have been content, but at least Esmeralda would still be dancing. It wouldn't be so bad to suffer if it meant everyone else lived in happiness.

If only he had known the destruction his brief moment of joy would bring.

The hall was coming to an end. There was a crawlspace to his right, a place in the walls where a staircase was meant to be installed for fast travels of the caretakers, but it was never completed, leaving nothing more than a tiny nook, just large enough to fit, but not large enough to be comfortable. Comfort wasn't what he looked for; a place to hide, to be alone, was all he wanted.

Quasimodo settled into place, holding Esmeralda tightly to his chest. She was still warm; her life having been so bright that even in death it still wanted to radiate. Her face was serene, as if she were nothing more than asleep, dreaming peacefully. It wasn't a good place to dream, not with the fires still burning brightly outside, but at least for now they were alone, not bothered by the hateful world beyond these walls.

Except in reality, he wasn't alone with her, but rather by himself. He could still see her, still feel her warmth, but he no longer could see the bright life in her eyes, or catch those blessed snippets of her voice, that with every word sounded like a song. She wouldn't look up at him and gently touch his face, or call him friend.

He was so, so alone.

No tears came, having already spent every one he could shed. Instead there was a stillness, a quiet emptiness that seemed to come over him. There was no more worry, no more pain, no more fear of the unknown. Only the stillness, and the faint warmth that was slowly dimming.

Perhaps the soldier would come looking for them. Perhaps someone would find them and bring them back to the world of movement. Some small part of Quasimodo wished for this, wished for someone to care enough to bring him out of this world.

But no one came. The world remained still, and soon the warmth died. And Quasimodo truly felt what it was like to be made of stone.


End file.
